Is the Christmas glass half full?

It would be fairly obvious to those who really know me that the past few weeks have taken me through yet another phase of post-Tony grief.  The onset of Christmas has loomed over me since early October when someone casually asked me what I was doing for Christmas.

I remember being taken totally aback by the question.  After all, it was only early October and any thoughts of Christmas weren’t even in the hazy horizon of my mind.  I was still dealing with mid-winter past and the first year of the birthday seasons spent without my darling man.  So to be asked what I was doing at Christmas hit me totally unexpectedly.  Why would I be thinking about Christmas in early October, for goodness sake! 

Besides, we’d never had to prethink our Christmases for the past 20 years of Christmas.  Christmas has always been Christmas.  That is, we had done the same thing every Christmas for the almost past 20 years – being together, Tony and I, and doing what we had always done – to us every Christmas was the same old, same old. 

And what was that?  

It was taking ourselves down to the Waitemata Harbour early on a Christmas day, going for a long swim out to Bean Rock lighthouse, climbing up it and viewing the land from that unique position and height, then swimming back to shore.  The first year we did it there was just 3 of us.  Tony, myself and an old (not in years old in those days) Ironman friend of Tony’s, Bayden Pascoe.  On arriving back on shore and drying ourselves off we would then find some place open where we could get a coffee and something to eat before heading home for the rest of the day.  

Finding somewhere to coffee and eat on Christmas morning some twenty years ago was not that easy.  Cafes as of today’s café generation weren’t around in Auckland those days.  The first coffee we had was in the little brick building on Quay Street, adjacent to the Ferry Building – the  one that is now the ferry ticket building.  It was literally the only café open early Christmas morning.  We drank bad coffee out of plastic cups and had toast and jam off plastic plates and cutlery.  Twenty years ago that was probably almost twee.

The first year we did this was because it was the first year that neither of us had anyone at home for us to share our Christmas with.  Tony’s sons had gone to live with their mother and neither of my two were living in Auckland or likely to be thus being now bereft of kiddies to enjoy our Christmas with we decided to make our own entertainment to pass the traditionally child focused Christmas morning.

What happened in the proceeding years was that the Christmas morning swim became an annual institution with various friends and acquaintances who were strong swimmers deciding that an early morning Christmas Day swim was just the biscuit to begin their own festive day before heading to the in or out laws.  We have some lovely photos of those groups of swim friends who joined us for those swims – how life has changed and moved forward as many of those in the photographs have had their lives changed over the years and either no longer swim, or have since married/remarried and/or got their own children; or no longer triathlon or swim, or no longer live.  They are other stories for another time.

After the Christmas brunch or breakfast Tony and I would head home for the rest of the day where we would cook a turkey throughout the afternoon whilst friends and family would call and pop in for a summer drink and nibble or two.  Very often we would invite my step-mother over either for a nibble or the full meal, whichever suited her, and we’d have a most relaxed and enjoyable day either being by ourselves or enjoying the various and many pop-ins that may happen upon us.  No pressure, no stress (except that we never did get the turkey cooked to perfection – it was always either underdone or overdone – but we didn’t care – that was of no significance) and pure pleasure of being together.

So when in early October someone asked me what I was doing for Christmas my instant reaction was of surprise at the question then a vague rote response of, “I guess I’ll be doing the same as usual,” without embellishing on whatever ‘usual’ was.

But the question then hung gloomily on my mind for the ensuing weeks.  And more gloomily as the weeks passed for not only has Tony gone from my life for Christmas, but earlier this month my much loved step-mother unexpectedly passed away. Two enormous voids in the annual Christmas cheer.

Come late November the whole thought of Christmas had already become one of dismal reminders of Christmas’s past.  This time last year.  This time the year before.  This time 5 years ago, 7 years ago, 15 years ago.  Every reflected Christmas only reminded me of the Christmas to come.  I have not been looking forward to Christmas.  Then with Fay passing away early December the massive despondency of Christmas to come only became deeper and deeper.

Try as I might, the joy of Christmas’s past only made the thought of Christmas future one of melancholy  and downheartedness.  I think I did my best to whack the self imposed, woebegone attitude out of me.  I went to Christmas carol singing, I purchased Christmas cards with the good intentions of writing in them and posting them.  I purchased annual calendars to post to overseas friends and relatives.  I even took the cards and calendars with me to my house-cat-sitting role in Whangamata to make the most of the self time to get these supposedly pleasant tasks done.  I put my name down to attend a Christmas breakfast at the gym, another with friends for a lunch – I even prepaid for both.  I bought myself a Christmas dress.  But I never opened the packets of Christmas cards, nor the calendars to send; I never attended the breakfast, or the lunch and the Christmas dress remained on the hanger in the wardrobe. 

And Christmas loomed closer.

Yes, the annual Christmas morning swim was still planned; I found this out because I read the notice that it was on in our OWR blog site a few weeks ago ….  And it seemed that the boys (Danny and Glenn) had presumed that Christmas was going to be the same old, same old as they had both informed me they had specifically requested the day off at their respective places of employment so would be here for Christmas day.

The only problem was, it would not be same old, same old.  This year there would be no Tony here.  Last year was certainly a different Christmas for us, but we still went to Mission Bay Christmas morning and we still had Christmas dinners at home with extended families and we still had Tony doing all that with us.  This year the void would be enormous. 

And Christmas loomed closer.

And then early last week, little by little, the Christmas foreboding began to lift.  It began when son Glenn proposed the idea that we have Christmas at their home, the home where he and partner, Yoli, little Anthony and big Uncle Danny live.  The very suggestion of not being here for Christmas surprisingly and instantly lifted so much of the pensiveness I had been harbouring about the actual day.  An immense sense of relief flooded over me.  I realised just how much I did not want Christmas to be same old same old.  It could never be that again.  I knew instantly that it was time to get rid of same old and begin same new.  I think I was openly grateful at the suggestion.  I hope I was. 

The next day a very warm friend handed me a small gift and handed the same gift to another friend.  It was handed to us in a most casual and busy moment and handed with a particular purpose.  But it was a gift, a Christmas gift and receiving it was both unexpected and accepted with a surprising pleasure at her thought of giving and her thought pattern of what the gift was.  There was a certain enchantment at being the recipient of the unheralded presentation.

I was touched.

The same day I was made to realise the fortune of having many warm friends.  After spending some time rubbing down a magnificent set of feminine legs the possessor of the legs handed me a gorgeously baked and wrapped mini-Christmas cake that I know was made with love and tender affection – even if it did take her days, maybe weeks, of soaking the fruits in the witchery of alcoholic liquids.  That little cake sits on my coffee table and will probably be maturing all the more for many weeks to come before I will have to make the fatal cut and enjoy each crumb of the love it was made with.  I have weeks of great anticipation of that enjoyment.

I was touched.

Two days later I had a visit from one of the athletes I had coached last summer for Ironman back in March this year.  He came bearing a gift.  I have no idea what the gift is as it sits still wrapped, under the Christmas tree in my lounge.  What it is does not matter – it was the thought that he had gone out of his way to visit and share some fond memories and thoughts of future that meant much to me.  For he had invested a lot of soul into his athletic achievement over the last summer and I had invested much of my own soul in wanting him to do well with his goal so we had a shared and mutual bond there that I guess we both recognised.  His visit was a reminder of how much we as individuals can impact on each other’s lives when working for a common goal.  

I was touched.

That night I had a Christmas concert to attend which I had already decided days earlier to renege attending.  Yet as the day progressed I pondered on my decision not to attend and pondered on the value of making myself jolly up and ensure I would not be the morose member of the group attending.  Somehow the decision change seemed easier to make and ‘jollying’ up did not take nearly as much energy as it usually does.

It was a lovely night. 

Made all the lovelier to arrive home to a virginally white bouquet of flowers sitting at my door to greet me.   Whether the virginal white was specifically ordered to reflect my nun-like state I have no idea, but the irony was enjoyed by the recipient.  And how lucky was I!  Thank you to the One-Day-Will-Be-A-Finely-Tuning-Athlete.  You lifted what gloom spirits that were encircling me to a more distant plane. 

And the weekend following became one of invaluable awareness and  gratitude that my life is not a case of a glass half full – but an overwhelming show of proof that my life is a situation of a glass overflowing.

Overflowing  in the form of people who do actually take that extra little time to think, do and demonstrate they care.  At a time when I have been deeply self absorbed with soul searching melancholy the actions of warm friends have lifted that melancholy away – like a puff of wind they have blown that gloomy atmosphere hanging over my head completely out of the window and made me ever so grateful that I have had some valuable people in my world.

Doors have been mended, unstartable lawn mower has been started, lawns have been mown, a fresh smelling pine Christmas tree has arrived, been installed and decorated by two delightful children.  Have meandered  happily to MOTAT and its Christmas night lights and activities with special friend and child, bike and car problems fixed, lovely phone calls have been made, visitors received, hidden gifts discovered in the house.  And even real bubbles flowed on Sunday night as a warm collection of warm friends sat in my lounge for a pre-Christmas concert drink and merriness and bubbles were had.  And my Christmas dress came out of the wardrobe and worn, to the compliments of many.

No such thing as a glass half full.  It’s overflowing.  Overflowing with bubbles of goodwill.

Tony will be smiling. Smiling more than ever that others have lifted the doldrums from his wife’s Christmas gloom.  He will be a very happy man. For the bondship of our friends and for his wife.

Bring on Christmas Day.

Good bye to Fay - a most wonderful lady

Heck - it was the scariest thing.  So far, since Tony died nine months ago I have only had one occasion when I thought I saw him in a crowd of people.

I imagine this would happen often for some people after they have lost someone they love.  Head into any busy shopping mall and you could easily pick out people that could possibly look like someone else you know. Tony used to do that often, say to me, "Look at that person, don't they look like (whoever).....?"

The one time it happened to me sometime in the middle of this winter was the weirdest few moments; it truly freaked me, then sent me on a good hour of so of near despair.  Funnily enough, it wasn't the face of the person who I momentarily thought was Tony, it was a pair of man's legs.  Tony had very distinctive and great looking legs.  I know, I used to massage them frequently.  And people were always admiring his legs - much to my annoyance as my pair were clearly not worth commenting on.  

It was on one of the few runs I did over winter when I was in my own little world, struggling along, and I looked ahead to see this pair of legs running ahead of me.  Tony's legs. At least the adrenaline pump through my body momentarily thought they were Tony's legs.  They weren't, of course.  In fact, when looking longer I realised they were not quite as fabulous as Tony's legs were.  But they had done the damage by then.  I remember stopping, crying and walking back to the car.  For that one fleeting nano-second I had thought I had seen Tony. Hugely distressing.

I hope to never have any other instance like that again.  

Today, this morning, I was at Mission Bay.  I had gone down to watch some of the crew compete in the Panasonic triathlon series of events being organised early this morning.  Was walking along the Mission Bay footpath, adjacent to the beach, when I looked up and saw the spiting image of, not Tony, but my step-mother who passed away two weeks ago today.  I could not see the lady's face, I saw her from a distance; she was down at the waters edge, clearly supporting someone in the event.  But the body, the height, the clothing, the slight stoop, the age, everything about her was step-mum Fay. Of course I knew it wasn't, but on this occasion I stopped and took a longer and second look.  Yes, the little lady most certainly looked very like Fay. So someone else is lucky that their mother, grandmother, step mother, aunty, whatever, was well, alive and able to be down at Mission Bay at 7 am on a Sunday morning, to watch their efforts. Like most of us, that family probably don't realise just how special it is to have those older family members around.  

I did not get upset today. It made me quietly feel peaceful that the person I was looking at must be a little like Fay on the inside too.  Being down there so early on a Sunday supporting what was probably another, younger family member.  That was so Fay.

Since Fay died two Sundays ago, I have often been taken aback at the reaction of folk when they learn that my step mother had passed away.  The first few times it happened it almost offended me.  It seems that once I mentioned the word 'step' that people dismissed the loss as not being of such great significance as it would have been had the word not been used; had it been my 'mother' instead of my 'step mother'.  

I eventually realised and understood that other folk would not realised the significant place in our hearts that our 'step-mother' had.  She was no ordinary lady, yet in every way she was an ordinary lady.  She had been in our family life for nearly 40 years.  That's a long time to be a family member.  Losing Fay was a great loss - to all of our family, including my boys and Glenn's little Anthony.  She was a special lady.  So much so that I knew I had to share with others just what she meant to my family and myself.  So I wrote my own eulogy to Fay to deliver at her funeral four days later.  It must have been a reasonably good eulogy as I have been thanked for it by various members of those who were in attendance at the funeral.  Two have asked for a copy.  I told them to read my blog site.  So have pasted it here for you family.

Fay's Eulogy

Blood is not always thicker than water. 

Family is not always blood.  

Family are the people in your life who you love and who love you back.  My sisters, brother and I and all our own children loved Fay – to us she was as much as a blood relative to us as we are to each other.

·      She wasn't the world’s greatest cook.

·      She wasn't the world’s greatest housekeeper.

·      She wasn’t the world’s greatest golfer.

·      But she was the world’s greatest Grandma and Stepmother our Cook family could ever have been lucky enough to have.

·      And a dear, kind wife to our father.

·      We have nothing but gratitude that Fay came into his life, and ours

My name is Verna Cook-Jackson, I am the 3^rd child of Lyall Cook who married Fay on 28 December 1976.  I speak for my 2 sisters and brother.  And all our children and their children.

Gratitude

When I think of what Fay has delivered to our lives – I think of the word gratitude.  I am grateful that Fay was in our life, I am grateful my sons and nieces and nephews had Fay as a Grandmother.  I am grateful Fay was my father’s wife.

She came into our lives as a mother and step mother and grandmother and personally, to me, it was a very happy day as my father had found someone to love and share his life with.  And along with Fay came Dianne, as a sister to Tina, and Jan, Lee and Colin, another complete family for our Dad to overseer and enjoy.

Dad did not have to go far to find and court Fay, the only effort he had to put in to courting her was to walk the 50 metres across the road from his house to hers. For she literally lived across the road and had done for many years prior to her husband, and my mother dying, within a relatively close time period.

There was many a titter when we found out our father was 'crossing the road'. 

As a stepmother to us who were well into our 20’s when they married, she slotted into the role of mother, stepmother and grandmother very graciously.  To each of us she had a different relationship.

To my younger sister Tina, Fay was a Mum.

To my older sister Delwyn, Fay wasn't a step mother, she was/is a dear and close friend.  A week never passed without Fay either spending time with Delwyn or phoning her.  Delwyn will miss Fay greatly.

To me, she was a primo step mum who loved my Dad.

Fay never interfered in any way that could cause family difficulty, but was always there whether for joyous celebrations or family setbacks. 

As a grandmother, my boys were so very lucky.  Here was a person who took on the mantel of grandparent without a second thought.  Our children were Lyall’s grand children therefore they were her grandchildren – no debate or discussion, it was the way it was.   It is the only grandmother mine & Delwyn’s children have ever known.

Last night I picked up some old diaries of mine dating back to the late 70’s, early 80’s when my boys and Delwyn’s girls were small – and was reminded of just how an important role she took in their lives. All their lives. The amount of times ‘Grandma’ was mentioned in relation to the children was surprisingly frequent.  Barely a week went past when any of them did not have something to do with Grandma. 

She was a truly unique person. 

At 75 she completed her first ever marathon.  I was there that day and had no idea she had entered.  When I saw her at the start line her first words were, “Don’t tell the family, I don’t think they would be happy with me doing this,” said with a naughty giggle unique to Fay. She followed that with the statement, “Your father and I used to come and watch you girls run this marathon and I always wondered if I could do it too!”  She did.  At 75 years young.

After Dad died Fay told Delwyn of her own personal Bucket List.  It included walking the Tongariri Crossing, doing a couple of major tramps, including Milford Track, doing Tai Chi – and visiting Stewart Island.  It was only a few weeks ago when she was staying in the South Island with Colin & Wendy that she and Colin spent a day at Stewart Island. That by co-incidence, was the last on her list of Things to Do before I go. 

Ironical isn't it?

In this world there are those who are takers and those who are givers.  Fay would have had to have been up there with the world’s greatest givers, literally until her dying day. 

And she made Dad happy.

There are so many lovely stories about Fay and I hope many will be shared over tea and coffee this afternoon, but I want to share a couple with you.

I recall a day, many, many years ago when Dad decided he would take Fay to her first test cricket match to Eden Park.  I think it was 1980 when the West Indies were playing NZ. It was by chance that I was at home in the garden listening to the cricket commentary on the transistor  radio, when there was a pause in the commentary until a commentator said, “There seems to be a stop in play.  The umpires are waving their arms at something. Oh, now we can see what they are waving at. Ah yes, there is a little old lady walking across in front of the sight screen.  Oh, now she’s stopped, in the middle of the sight screen.  She’s seen the cricket players waving.  She’s stopped to see what they are waving at. Geoff Howarth out in the field of play is running over to her. Oh, she’s moving away folks.  She has moved off the field folks, the little old lady has moved from the field of play.  The game of cricket can be resumed.”

Dad, who was sitting in the lower terraces of the main stand heard all this commentary himself as he had his own little transistor radio plugged into his ear and told me when he looked up and saw it was his wife that was holding up the international cricket match, he shrunk down into his seat in the hope no one realised it was the “little old lady” who had earlier been sitting next to him.  Fate had it that he would not get out of this predicament, Fay promptly left the field and returned to her seat next to Dad which according to him, was the most embarrassing part with all muffled sniggers and giggles from those sitting around them.

“I’m never taking her to bloody cricket again!” he announced to us.

My husband, Tony, who passed away earlier this year, absolutely loved Fay – he saw her at the epitome of what he wanted to be like when he got older – even though he already was.

He loved retelling the story of the millennium New Year’s night when I phoned Fay about 6.30 in the evening to wish her a happy New Year.  I asked if she was doing anything special for the night and she said no, she was just going to see the night in quietly by herself. Tony and I and Glenn and a couple of friends were heading out to Piha that night to watch the last of the sunsets for that year.  I said to Fay that she was more than welcome to join us but we were leaving our house in Mt Albert at 7.15 sharp.  As you know Fay lives in Papatoetoe.  She giggled and thanked me for the invitation.  Literally at 10 past 7 there is a knock at the back door and there is Fay.  “Fay!” I said looking at my watch, “have you driven from your place to here in that time?”

“Yes,”she said, “and I was a bit worried as I’ve already had 2 speeding tickets in the last 3 months.

Tony loved that. She went so high up in his estimation from then on he called her The Flying Grandma. 

There are dozen of stories like that, share them this afternoon. In my non-spare time I scribed a short poem, to Fay.

A Tribute To Fay, Our Stepmother

We were bless with Fay as our stepmother
She stepped into the role of Grandma too
She come into our lives and our families,
to do what all grandmas & mothers do.

She looked after our sister &  our children
Their birthdays and celebrations she ne’r missed
And she never sought any return
For her love except to be kissed.

The blended family it soon almost doubled
Keeping her pulse on them all she did tend.
And she was always there for our father,
It was so sad when his life had to end.

Our Stepmother, so longing to comfort,
was determined that she'd not interfere.
But she was always right there in the background,
waiting graciously to help with our tears.

Well, now Fay it’s your turn to depart us
But let me whisper just what's on our hearts.
We were blessed that you joined our Cook family,
and in our lives we’re so grateful you were a part. 

Bless you Fay.

I so miss that man

Despite doing my best to move forward with my life, I cannot help but have daily moments to remind me of how much I miss that man.

I am not morbid.  I am looking to the future with optimism.  But I still cannot help but miss that enormous void my life has now.

It was at a delightful venue this evening when a wave of loss flooded over me.  

It was such a pleasant evening too, as many in the past weeks have been.  The weather has been kind to us and tonight the weather helped set the scene for the first Christmas event of the season for me.

Tony and I have been loyal supporters of the local Historical Society ever since it first inaugurated itself some years ago.  I love history, particularly New Zealand and local history, and when an associate of ours advertised in the local community asking whether there would be any local Mt Albert residents interested in forming a historical society based on the community of Mt Albert we put our hands up, sent  our monies forward and thus became two of the thirty or so first members of the Mt Albert Historical Society.

It has always been based in the historic Alberton House which is the oldest, grand home on the slopes of Mt Albert.  Each year the society has grown and each year it has had numerous events of which Tony and I would sometime attend.  When they began their first Christmas evening in Alberton House, we were there to enjoy local musicians play and sing along with the Christmas carols whilst supping wine and nibbling at Christmas mince pies.

The last time we went to one of these was four years ago, or was it three?  No matter – it was a warm and sunny evening and standing on the verandah surrounding the old homestead, looking out over the hundred year old trees was the ultimate in early summer pleasantness.  We were lucky that year as one of the local Mt Albert families, the Harrops, who are known for being a family of musical renown, played the pianos, clarinet and sang for the group of attendees.  It was delightful as Cathy Harrop is a well know local opera singer so we had an evening of local entertainment, with locally made Christmas nibbles among happy locals who cared about their Mt Albert community.

A few weeks ago I was sent notification of this year’s Christmas event and determined that I would attend and contacted a friend who I knew would thoroughly enjoy the mere two hour event.

So Fiona and I wandered along to Alberton House this evening, were greeted by some local man who is the chairman of the historical society, purchased a couple of raffle tickets, were handed glasses of non-alcoholic punch – our choice, there was ample wine – and sat back to enjoy the early entertainment of the evening.  This was a local man who neither of us knew but who we quickly picked up has been given a knighthood by a government at some time, as folk addressed him as Sir Harold, or was it Sir Harry?  Can’t remember. 

Sir Whoever then introduced us to a women who has lived in Mt Albert for some years who, along with her husband and family, are accomplished violinists.  Therefore we were to be entertained by the lady violinist who would alternate entertaining us with her classical violin between Sir Whoever singing us songs in his aging baritone voice.  He was accompanied on the piano by his cousin who is also a local resident.

So we sat back, with punch to sip and listened to violins, baritones and pianos. We even had a few jolly good chuckles, as we do, at our own expense. Fiona had deduced that she would have been the youngest in the room, and she's seen a few decades herself.  So that bemused us, along with a number of other private jokes between us. We were relaxed, taking in the atmosphere.

Could do much worse on a beautiful Friday summer early evening.  It was near perfect for both Fiona and I, for both of us were exhausted from busy days and sitting and relaxing like this made the soul feel good.  That is, until later in the proceedings when it was time for Christmas carols.

Now laugh as you will at the mere mention of Christmas carols.  But where ever you are, if Christmas carol singing is on the agenda you will find very few people who don’t actually begin to enjoy humming or singing along with the much loved and nostalgic carols.  We did.  Until it got to Silent Night.  And that’s when it happened.

It is as though a pot of boiling lard is tipped through the insides of the body.  It travels from the top of the skull, down through the body, when it hits the heart it adds a leaded weight to it and then pours down and out through the toes.  It’s called emotion.  Unexpected, hot flowing emotion. 

It was my soul, missing that man.

But it’s OK.  Remember, it’s tears of love.  I leaked a few tears of love.  And the tears have got softer.

Come a couple of carols later I roused my attention back and was blasting forth with We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

  

Hearts, knees and boomp-si-bollocking

Signed up and paid for my entry to the 2014 Rotorua Marathon this evening. Had to enter tonight while I remembered as after 30 November the entry fee increases by $20.  The entry fee is already $109.00, which was one of the reasons I have held off entering any earlier.

Had been dithering over entering ever since flogging myself around the course earlier this year in a somewhat shattered state.  Due to our home situation the past few years had seen me totally under prepared and under trained for a marathon event which has meant that instead of suffering for a mere 4 hours or less, I would have to suffer for 5 hours or more.  That is a long time of suffering; despite the fact my brain has become used to telling the body that it was born to suffer, it doesn't make the suffering any more tolerable.

Still, when reflecting over the past 4 or 5 years of doing the annual event each one of those years has been memorable for me for one reason or another. Because until this year, Tony was my support person - and up until 2012 he would be supporting me by riding his mountain bike out on the course with the plan of being around to give me moral support and any drinks or nutrition my body may be calling out for somewhere around the 25 kilometre mark.  But inevitably, each year, he would totally forget about me, his darling wife being out there waiting for his support - he would assume I had done the marathon enough times that I didn't need any help or assistance and would therefore be somewhere on the bike, anywhere but near me, chatting to old friends he's come across on the sideline or cheering on others he knows who are doing the event. 

The number of times he got a bollocking for not being where he was supposed to be was too many to count.  It never seemed to bother him - he'd do exactly the same the next year.

In 2012 though he was unable to cycle out on the course as he had recently had yet another brain operation.  But sons, Danny, Glenn and Pete drove us both down earlier in the morning in time for me to get to the start line, and they looked after Tony and drove around the course to support.  That was the first year in many that I actually had a support team who knew what they were doing and actually supported me.  And I can picture Tony there with his head scarf and smiling and being a very happy chap having almost everyone that mattered to him with him for the whole day.  We have lovely photos to remember that day by.

Then there was this year, in May; Tony had passed away 7 weeks earlier and although I drove down early in the morning, flogged myself around the course, then drove home the same day - the day proved to be just as memorable due to the fact that I had a whole team of supporters who volunteered to drive me down and support - and true to form, they too buggered off to lunch in Rotorua at the time when I was somewhere around the top end of the lake desperately seeking their welcoming faces.

So, true to form, when they did eventually turn up somewhere in the latter part of the day (about the time I was on the verge of hitting the wall due to lack of sustenance - and I will add that I had already stolen some other poor sods banana that their little wife had been standing on the side line holding for whenever hubbie came past) , they too got one hell of a bollocking for not being where they were supposed to be.  They may have had their bellies full, but I gave them all that more a belly full when I saw them.

I can still picture it - Peter with his tail between his legs wondering what the hell had just hit him.


                                     


Quite frankly, I did it for effect - I mean, they rather expect me to do something spectacular somewhere throughout the day and as it certainly wasn't going to be a spectacular running time what better than a jolly good Verna bollocking.  I had to stay true to form.  And it gave me a sense or normalcy.  Why break a great tradition?  

Then, this next year, in May 2014, Rotorua celebrates the 50th running of the Rotorua 42 kilometre marathon.  And I have pondered seriously as to how I am going to get around yet again.

Nothing to do with emotions or still grieving for Tony but all to do with medical hiccups I have been plagued with over the past years.

Knees Up

Three years ago I was up a ladder doing a chore that Tony could no longer do when I jumped off the ladder and landed very badly on the ground.  So badly that I twisted my knee underneath my body and heard a crack and felt something go terribly wrong.  I soon realised I had not broken my leg but knew I had done some major damage to my knee.  I had difficulty standing up.

Over the next couple of months my physiotherapist sent me to a surgeon who recommended operating and assured me that she would repair the damage so that I could return to my much missed Yoga & Pilates and return to jogging and cycling and doing all the things that matter to me.

Many months later it became very obvious that the surgery was ineffective and my knee was in more disrepair post-op than pre-op.  At that point she (the surgeon) sent me off for an MRI scan - from which she determined that there was more damage than she had been aware of and that sorry, it was just plain bad luck she wasn't aware of that before the operation, otherwise she could have fixed in.

And of course, the MRI report also determined that at 60 years of age there had to be some arthritis damage which would then mean ACC would not cover the cost of another operation.  As the surgeon said, "You'll just have to face the fact you won't be able to do any of those things you used to do - except biking." 

I was not a happy lady.  Had the surgeon arranged the MRI before the operation, as is usual practise, I would not be in this predicament.  What makes it worse is that there is no previous history of arthritis, I had never had any and nor is there any in any other joint in my body.  The reports see the age of the patient and inevitably presume arthritis has to be there.  It helps get ACC to worm out of covering any future costs.

So, I now have a knee that swells up terribly whenever I do any load bearing exercise.  I can no longer complete a full Yoga or Pilates class due to my knee's inability to bend without dreadful pain - and if I know I am to be using it for any length of time I must take extra strong anti-inflammatory tablets to cover the pain.

Broken Heart

And then there is the heart problem.  Which has decided to fully engage in being a pain in the.... heart.

Seems I was borne with a heart defect - every now and then it goes into fibrillation.  That is, it races, very fast.  So fast any ECG machine needle is working overtime to keep up.  This defect was discovered well over 20 years ago.  I used to almost pass out when racing in events but always presumed everyone almost passed out.  Only they didn't, so the heart experts told me when it was discovered.

I was lucky - I never passed out and I was eventually taken into hospital to undergo a procedure to fix the problem.

I skip the long and boring details but the end result is that over a period of 20 years I have undergone the procedure 5 times and each time the heart surgeons have not quite fixed the problem.  The last procedure was done 2 years ago.  They thought they got it at that time, but alas, they did not.

The effect it has on me is that when I exercise and the heart has to work a little harder to pump the oxygen around my body, it goes bonkers - it beats anywhere between 200 to 280 times a minutes - and most of the time no sports heart rate monitor can pick these beats up - indeed, if one manually takes the pulse it is only going at 30 to 40 beats a minute.

What this means is that no oxygen is being pumped anywhere into my body.  If you can imagine what it feels like to be totally depleted of oxygen, that is how I feel most days if I try running, particularly up any mild slope let alone a real hill.  Even walking up the stairs in my home from the laundry causes the heart rate to go haywire; by the time I get to the top of the stairs I am exhausted.  So I venture downstairs as little as possible, or return back upstairs by going outside the house, walking around to the side of it via only 3 steps and coming in the back door - thus eliminating the breathlessness.

Putting the broken heart and bung knee together   ...

and you get one hopelessly handicapped individual.

Getting bumped

The story gets longer - but will shorten it.  Early last year the heart surgeons at Auckland Hospital informed me they had developed a new procedure which they considered would finally fix the problem and were very keen to go ahead and perform it on me.  Sadly, at the time Tony was not a healthy chap himself and my care giving at this stage was literally 24 hrs, 7 days.  There was no way I would contemplate going into hospital for an overnight procedure and leave Tony.  

The surgeons were understanding and earlier this year within a few short weeks of Tony passing away they were in contact and began arranging for me to have the procedure.

Long and short of it is - eventually went into Auckland Hospital Cardiac Care ward on Friday 13th September.  As directed I arrived at the hospital at 7.30 in the morning and finally at 2.30 pm was wheeled into the theatre to be prepped for the procedure. 

Was all prepped for the operation, literally on the operation table, connected up to ECG machines and various other surgical machines, the anesthetist had inserted his two leads to knock me out - 6 nursing staff were in the theatre busying themselves, the 2 anesthetists, the 2 surgeons plus a junior registrar were all set to go when the surgeons were called aside by someone who had come into theatre.

They came back to me full of apologies, but said they could not go ahead with the procedure - which could take anywhere between 2 to 6 hours - because it was Friday afternoon and the "...lab staff are not prepared to work late tonight if the procedure was still under way at 5 pm" - their knock off time.

I am deadly honest with this. 

So after all forms of apologies, foot shuffling and clear anger and/or frustration by some of the staff, I literally got myself off the operating table and walked out of the theatre to the day ward.  It was most bizarre situation. It was a 'pinch me this cannot be happening' occurrence.  

But it was and it did.

There were attempts at reassuring promises that I would be called back at the earliest opportunity to have this procedure finally done.  

The earliest I got called back was 3 weeks later.  On a Friday again, but they had assured me my procedure would be done first, before anyone else.  Get in there at 7 am.  Waiting in the waiting area to be sent to the day ward when my cell phone goes.  It is the nurse who oversees these procedures, ringing me to tell me not to come in as they could not do my procedure on this day because overnight they had gained 3 priority patients who had to be put ahead of me and my mere procedure.  I was bumped off the list.  Told to go home.

So I got booked for a third date - two days before that the same nurse rings to tell me not to come in as yet again they have urgent patients who have bumped me off the list.  Then finally, only last week they rang to say I would not have my procedure now until 2014 as the cardiac surgeon has gone on holiday and will not be back doing these heart procedures until the new year.

Knee'd heart

Thus, an unnecessarily bunged knee, bunged worse due to surgical incompetence.  A bunged heart due to being born and a lot of other people bumping me off.  Not a lot going for me at the moment.

Not all is lost

I do manage to swim without heart or knee problems.  I can cycle reasonably OK if I manage my knee and the stress some cycling can put it under.  I cannot run without pain or later consequences - but I can still sorta run and worry about the joint pain and stiffness the next day.

Which saw me swimming, biking and walk/jogging a triathlon this past Sunday.  Not planned as was entered as a team.  I was to swim & bike and Young Jason was to do the run - until he became very ill with influenza.

So I fronted at the event and thought, "What the hell, he paid for the entry fee already, was going to do two thirds of it, may as well try the last third and the worst that can happen is I will pull out." 

I know my heart well enough now that I can monitor when it plays up - when it's about to flip into fibrillation I stop and walk.  When it settles, I slowly jog again.

Back to the marathon

So tonight I have entered the 2014 Rotorua Marathon.  Paid the enormous entry fee.  Figured that I've done the marathon for 33 years in a row now - why change a bad habit?  I've done it on a bad heart for each of those 33 years - it just so happens that it is playing up more in the 33rd year than it did for the first 20.  

It will settle sometime.  It usually does.  I go through periods like now when it throws tantrums all day for weeks or months.  Then eventually it settles back to being almost normal, for a while.  

But the major, major problem is - who is going to be my support team at the marathon?  - cause whoever it is they know that sometime during the marathon day they are going to get the biggest bollocking they will have ever had in their adult life?!

Oh, what the heck, let's see who the brave and bold ones are.  I shall keep the blog posted.  



                        

Was it worth it?

Someone asked me yesterday, "Well, was it worth it?  Did they notice all the good work you did?" 

Yes, it was worth it - of course it was.  All the digging, pulling and filth I put myself through, by my own choice, the other day in the garden at Whangamata.  And the feelings I put upon myself of feeling as though I had been committed to a detention centre for the mere few days I was there - that was all selfish and wasted emotion.  It was well worth it.

I left the property before they arrived back from their Australian sojourn, with some apprehension as to if they would feel annoyed, insulted and just plain angry at the work I had done.  We chose to meet half way - I was traveling up to Auckland, they were return to Whangamata from Auckland so we met at a cafe half way.  I decided not to mention any of the twit incidents, any of the trips back to the city, nor the house cleaning or garden jobs I did in a perhaps misguided way of helping.  So was enormously relieved to receive this text from them once they had arrived home:

"Wow, the place feels like the cleaning and gardening fairies have run riot!  Unbelievably nice to come home to.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  Can't tell you how much we loved knowing you were minding our family and space. Cats are slowing forgiving us. So nice to be home and to come home to it like this.  Slothed in chair now.  Ta very much dear dear friend. xxxxx"

It was worth it.  

People matter.  That's why I didn't say "no".  And probably never will.

Thought that to myself again yesterday afternoon when I was sitting at the bedside of a dear, dear old friend who has just been put into a rest home as her son felt he could no longer look after her. I reminded myself that I came to see her because she matters.  I did not want to go visit, at all.  It is always a strain visiting her, she is deaf so one has to yell to be heard; she cannot see all that well and she is semi-bed bound. These places remind me so much of the last few months of Tony's life.  I still cannot enter a hospital or the like without a few moments to take myself from public site and wipe away and blot out the tears and sadness.  When she asked last week if I would visit I wanted to say "no".  I didn't and said I would.  I went.  She looked so very sad when I walked in yesterday but her face lit up when she saw it was me and was so very grateful, I had been her only visitor in 4 days. As I left yesterday she asked if I would come again, without hesitation I said I would.  After all, it's not about me, it's about her.

The few hours out of my afternoon to visit yesterday was worth it.

People matter.  I'll no doubt never say "no".